


Ne M'oubliez pas

by wesleysgirl



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:59:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleysgirl/pseuds/wesleysgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the 2005 WatcherLove ficathon, for Lostgirlslair, who asked for a fall, amnesia, and Giles!hurt/Wesley!comfort.<br/>Many, many thanks to Tx_cronopio for the beta and advice, and to Justhuman for the title.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Ne M'oubliez pas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2005 WatcherLove ficathon, for Lostgirlslair, who asked for a fall, amnesia, and Giles!hurt/Wesley!comfort.  
> Many, many thanks to Tx_cronopio for the beta and advice, and to Justhuman for the title.

"What do you mean, he has amnesia?" Wesley says, dumbfounded.

"It's not uncommon with head injuries," the doctor says, glancing over his shoulder at Giles, who sits on the edge of the bed as a nurse finishes taping the bandage wrapped around his head into place. "It's difficult to identify exactly what's been lost without extensive testing -- but there's no reason to think it's not temporary. He knows who he is; he's just lost the past couple of years."

Wesley swallows, because if that's true it means that Giles has lost everything they've been to each other. "But it's not a permanent condition?"

"I wouldn't think so." The doctor pats Wesley's shoulder and adds, "I'm sure he'll be back to normal in no time."

The nurse gives them a sheet with information on it -- which sorts of things should prompt an immediate visit to casualty, which are to be expected, and the date and time of Giles' next appointment, which is the following afternoon.

Giles rides back to the flat in the passenger seat of their car, his head leant back against the headrest and his eyes closed. "We live together," he says at one point. It's not a question; it's more that he's testing out how it sounds. "We're together."

"Yes," Wesley says.

The fear he'd felt when Giles had slipped on the steps and fallen, knocking himself unconscious, is nothing compared to what he feels now.

They walk up the long flights of stairs to their flat, which is on the second floor. Giles looks around in wonder, as if the apartment is a place he hasn't seen since he was young, and Wesley feels yet another pang which he ignores in favor of doing what needs to be done.

"Here," he says. "Let's get you off your feet so you can rest."

Giles allows himself to be led into the bedroom and sits willingly on the edge of the bed, watching as Wesley unties his shoes. It's a bit like having a small child; despite Giles' obvious disorientation, he's trusting, letting Wesley direct him.

"Are we alone?" Giles asks.

"Yes. We live alone." Wesley frowns. "Together."

"Yes, I remember." Giles lies down and falls asleep, and Wesley sits in a chair beside the bed and watches him, aware that it's a bastardization of the term, yet not caring. The sun moves across the late afternoon sky, burnishing the walls with a coppery golden sheen that seems unforgiving in its beauty. Wesley sits and waits, and there's a part of him that's sure that everything -- that he and Giles, which as far as he's concerned is everything, the only thing, the only thing that matters -- is over. That it won't matter how many times Giles sleeps and wakes; that whatever insanity caused Giles to love Wesley has been wiped clean from the slate, leaving emptiness in its place.

And he's right; about the first time Giles wakes, at least, and somehow that makes it worse. Because Wesley knows that every time is going to be like this, poised on the edge of hope and waiting for it to be dashed to the floor, smashed into so many tiny shards like glass.

The look Giles gives him is blank for a moment before a resigned facade slips onto his face. "How long was I asleep?" he asks, and Wesley doesn't need to look at the clock to answer.

"Almost three hours." Wesley is polite, a bit distant, giving Giles the space that he'd want under these circumstances. "Would you like something to eat?"

Giles shakes his head slightly and winces. "No. But... tea, perhaps?"

"Of course. Stay here and I'll bring it for you."

But before the kettle has even come to a boil, Giles is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck and blinking at Wesley sheepishly. It's an expression as familiar to Wesley as the feel of Giles' body against his, and it gives him one wretched, painful moment of hope. Then Giles says, "I was looking about a bit. Wanted to see if anything would jog my memory," and Wesley is devastated all over again.

"Sit down," Wesley says. "You shouldn't be on your feet."

Giles sits, his hands twisted together on the tabletop in the way they often do when something is bothering him. When the kettle whistles, Wesley lets it; just for a second or two, but he needs to hear something other than his own thoughts, which are too loud in his head.

Then he picks up the kettle and pours hot water into the cups. Proper tea might be what Giles deserves, but it's more than Wesley does, and he won't allow it for himself.

Besides, Giles likes the tea bags just as well. He's said so a dozen times.

They sit and drink the tea, and the kitchen darkens gradually, and neither of them suggests turning on the lights. When it's almost fully dark, Giles says, "I should probably go back to bed," and Wesley nods and walks him to the bedroom.

"Would you like to change into something else?" Wesley asks.

Giles looks down at his slacks and shirt. "I suppose so."

"I'll get you something." Wesley moves to the chest of drawers and removes a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, the sort of thing that Giles wears when they're relaxing around the house. Somehow, it seems wrong to give him pajamas; too intimate. "Here. Should I -- ?"

He is about to ask if he should leave the room while Giles changes, but Giles is already undressing, unbuttoning his shirt. "No. I'd imagine you've seen it all." It's said with a smile that's nearly lost in the darkness, and Wesley wonders if Giles realizes how much of him is hidden.

Still, Wesley averts his eyes until Giles is dressed again and sitting on the side of the bed. "I'll sleep in the guest room," Wesley says, but again, Giles says, "No. Sleep here."

Wesley isn't sure which would be more painful: sleeping with Giles when Giles' memory of their relationship has been lost, or sleeping alone. Or perhaps they aren't that different.

The room is dark and quiet. Wesley can hear Giles breathing.

"I'm sorry," Giles says.

"I know," Wesley says. "So am I."

He doesn't sleep, not for hours, lying there listening to the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional small sigh from Giles. Then, just as Wesley is beginning to drift off, he hears Giles roll over, clear his throat. A warm hand touches his arm. "Wesley?" Giles says.

"Yes." He doesn't know what else to say.

Giles' hand slides up Wesley's arm to his shoulder, squeezes, and Wesley shuts his eyes and tries not to think. "Could I...?" Giles asks.

And again Wesley says, "Yes," because whatever it is that Giles needs, Wesley will always give it to him.

Giles moves closer and puts a tentative arm around Wesley's waist, and Wesley freezes; he doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. For a moment or two, Giles waits, seeming to understand, and then Wesley relaxes all at once, reaches out his own hand to touch Giles' face, fingers curled beneath Giles' chin in a caress.

"I love you," Wesley whispers. It's reflex, but no less true than it was that morning, when Giles had loved him back.

"I know," Giles says softly. "I wish... I wish I could remember why." His hand strokes over Wesley's lower back in a series of strokes that become lighter and lighter until he's asleep, his breath evening out.

Wesley hopes that when they wake in the morning, Giles will remember everything, but he can tell by the slightly blank, disappointed look in Giles' eyes when they open that that isn't the case.

"I'm sorry," Giles says again.

"So I am." The same words, and he doesn't mean them any less than he did the night before, but they feel different. More permanent.

They eat breakfast, and Giles insists on helping do the dishes afterward even though he has no idea where anything belongs. He insists that he remembers where he kept things before, when the flat was his alone, but in the time since Wesley began living here they've rearranged on more than one occasion. The exertion, little though it is, leaves Giles pale and shaky, and Wesley guides him to the couch and lowers him to a sitting position. He feels guilty and aroused and guilty for being aroused, but there's something about the way Giles' lips are flushed that makes Wesley ache to kiss him and there's nothing in the way Giles is looking at him that makes him want to stop himself.

Somehow, they're kissing, with Giles' hand on the back of Wesley's head, fingers threaded through his hair. Giles' other hand deftly, as if it remembers when he's forgotten, undoes the front of Wesley's slacks and pulls out his cock, stroking it without hesitation or caution. Wesley is grateful for the touch, for the attention; he always has been. Giles strokes him, thumb riding the length of Wesley's shaft.

Wesley cries out into Giles' mouth as he comes in a series of wrenching pulses that are so sweet and sharp that they're painful, then, shuddering, slides to the floor and breathes against the front of Giles' trousers, hot air diffusing and making Giles' erection twitch eagerly.

He looks up first, to be certain that this is what Giles wants, and the other man nods, his fingers still threaded through Wesley's hair.

Giles' cock is so familiar and beloved that Wesley just looks at it for a long moment. A tentative lick is all it takes to make Giles moan and push his hips up. Wesley begins to suck, watching Giles' face, torn between believing that this is wrong and not caring.

"Oh," Giles murmurs, his grip tightening in Wesley's hair. "Yes. Wesley." And he comes in warm spurts into Wesley's mouth, and Wesley swallows and doesn't realize that Giles' hand is tugging on his hair, pulling him up to sit beside him, until moments later. And he doesn't realize that Giles is looking at him with love and sorrow and, most importantly, recognition, until Giles takes his face between both hands and looks at him.

"Oh God," Wesley says. "Do you...?"

"Yes," Giles says fiercely. "Yes. Everything."

Wesley lets Giles pull him in close and hold him, his own arms slipping around Giles' waist and holding on. "Are you all right?" Wesley asks.

"Other than a headache and a strong sense that it should have been impossible for me to forget the past few years of my life, least of all everything you've meant to me? I'm fine." Giles' voice is soft and reassuring, and somehow that gives Wesley the renewed strength required to sit up and be the one doing the taking care of.

"Lie down," he says, shifting over to the table and urging Giles down onto the couch, head cushioned on a throw pillow. "You should be resting." He can still taste Giles' come in his mouth.

"I suppose it would be asking too much for you to get me some paracetamol?" Giles asks, his face pale again.

Wesley strokes Giles' hair softly. "Of course not. Stay here; I'll be right back."

He gets some pills and a glass of water, but by the time he returns, Giles is asleep. There's a moment of panic; Wesley sits the drowsy Giles up to verify that nothing has changed, and Giles smiles at him wearily and accepts the tablets with a murmured, "Thank you, love," that tells Wesley everything is fine.

They sit on the couch, Giles' head on Wesley's thigh. Giles dozes, and Wesley...

Wesley watches.

 

End.


End file.
